The Hanging Valley (35 page)

“That family has a secret, Mr Banks, a dark secret. Stephen’s hinted at it more than once, and I reckon it’s something to do with Nicholas and the ladies, though ladies is too dignified a term. Did you know he once forced himself on Molly Stark from over Relton way?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Aye. Well, it was hushed up, like most things Nicholas got up to. All neat and business-like.”

“Wasn’t there also some trouble with a servant-girl when his father was alive?” Banks asked.

“Aye,” said Fletcher “Got her in the family way. But money changed hands and shut mouths. It was all arranged for, no expense spared, and she did away with it. He had a lust for lasses below his station, as they used to say. Working-class girls, servants, factory-girls, milkmaids . . . I even caught him mauling Katie Greenock at Stephen’s party last week.”

At last it made sense to Banks. Nicholas Collier couldn’t keep away from women of a lower social class: Cheryl Duggan, Esther Haines, Katie Greenock, Anne Ralston, the servant-girl, Molly Stark—they were all beneath him socially. Although the term had lost a lot of its meaning over the past few years, they might still be called working-class women. Obviously it didn’t matter who they were as individuals; that didn’t interest Collier. He probably had some Victorian image of the working classes as a seething, gin-drinking, fornicating, procreating mass. He thrust himself on them and became violent when they objected. No doubt like most perverse sexual practices, his compulsion had a lot to do with power and humiliation.

“I knew something serious was up when we had those two murders here,” Fletcher went on, refilling their beer glasses. “That detective and young Bernard Allen. I knew it, but I didn’t know what. Whenever I asked, Stephen clammed up, told me to leave it be and I’d be better off not knowing.” He took a sip of beer. “Maybe I should’ve pushed a bit harder. Maybe Stephen would still be alive. . . . But I don’t think he killed himself. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I saw Nicholas putting something into his drink, and he was in a hell of a state at closing-time, worse than if he’d just had a few jars. And the next thing I hear, he’s dead. An overdose, they said. I knew he took sleeping tablets, but an overdose . . . ?”

“Yes, barbiturates,” Banks said. “Usually fatal, mixed with as much alcohol as Stephen Collier had in his system.”

“So it’s murder, isn’t it? That bastard brother of his murdered him.”

“It looks like it, Mr Fletcher, but we’ve got to tread carefully. We’ve got no evidence, no proof.”

“I’ll testify to what I saw. I’ll help put him away, as God’s my witness.”

Banks shook his head. “It’ll help, but it’s not enough. What if Nicholas was putting vodka in his brother’s beer? As you said, it could have been a simple prank, and that’s exactly what he’ll say. It’s all circumstantial and theoretical. We need more solid evidence, or a confession.”

“Then I’ll bloody well beat it out of him,” Fletcher said, grasping the table and rising to his feet.

“Sit down,” said Banks. “That’s not going to help at all.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“I honestly don’t know yet,” Banks said. “We might just be able to put together a case, especially if we bring in Anne Ralston, but I don’t want to risk it. Even if we could convince the court it’s worth a trial, I don’t want to take the chance of him getting off, which he might well do on what we’ve got so far.”

“I know I should’ve spoken up earlier,” Fletcher said. “I knew there was something wrong. If I’d told you before you went to Toronto, you might have had something to push at Stephen with, and he just might have told you the truth. He was on the edge, Mr Banks. That’s why Nicholas had to get rid of him, I suppose.”

“I think you’re right,” Banks said. “But we still can’t prove it. You shouldn’t blame yourself, though. You might have thought you were going to get Stephen in trouble. I imagine you were protecting him?”

Fletcher nodded. “I suppose I was. Him and his father’s memory.”

“To get Nicholas, you’d have had to betray Stephen. He was protecting his brother, or his father, like you were.”

“What’ll happen to me? Will you prosecute?”

“For what?”

“Withholding evidence? Accessory after the fact?”

Banks laughed. “You have a very thin grasp of the law, Mr Fletcher. Sure, you could have spoken earlier, as could a number of other people around Stephen Collier. But he kept everyone just enough in the dark so there was nothing, really, to say—nothing but vague fears and suspicions. Believe me, few people come to us with those—they don’t want to look silly.”

“So nothing’s going to happen to me?”

Banks stood up and gestured to Hatchley it was time to leave. “No. You’ve helped us. It’s up to us now to put a case together, or set a trap.”

“I’ll do anything to help,” Fletcher said. “Tell the bastard I know something and let him come and try to bump me off.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Banks said, “but thanks for the offer.”

They sat in the car for a few minutes and lit cigarettes. It was pitch black, and far down in the valley below, the lights of Swainshead glittered like an alley of stars.

“How hard should we push Collier?” Hatchley asked.

“We don’t push,” Banks said. “At least not the first time. I told you, he’s clever. He’ll see we’re desperate.”

“So what do we do?”

“We confront him with what we’ve got and try to trip him up. If he’s too clever to fall for that, and I suspect he is, then we try again and keep trying.” He started the engine and broke the fell-side silence.

“You can’t help admiring the bastard’s nerve, though, can you,” Hatchley said. “What if Freddie Metcalfe and Richmond had remembered seeing him order vodka and pour it in Stephen’s pints?”

“Then all he’d have had to say was that he played a practical joke, like Fletcher said. There’s nothing illegal about chasers. As things stand, it’s only Fletcher’s word against his, and a good defence lawyer would soon prove that John Fletcher had more than just cause to want to incriminate Collier. They’d bring up the incident at the party, for a start. Could you imagine Katie Greenock on the stand?”

Hatchley shook his head. “That lass never seems to know whether she’s coming or going.”

For some reason, Banks began to feel uneasy at the thought of Katie. What if she really did know more than she was telling? And what if Nicholas Collier suspected she knew? He might easily have seen her talking to Stephen. And Katie was exactly the kind of woman to set off his violent sexual behaviour.

He turned on to the road and headed south for Swainshead. There was still no light on in Collier’s house. Hatchley hammered at the door but got no answer.

“Let’s try the pub,” Banks suggested.

Hatchley brightened up at that. He hadn’t completely forgotten his priorities in a burst of professional zeal.

“Well, if it isn’t Chief Inspector Banks,” Freddie Metcalfe greeted them. “And Sergeant Hatchley, isn’t it? What can I do you for?”

Banks ordered two pints of Pedigree and lit a Silk Cut. Maybe a pint would calm down his jangling nerves. The hairs at the back of his neck were bristling.

“Seen Nicholas Collier tonight?” he asked.

“No, he’s not been in,” Freddie said. “Has tha got any further wi’ t’murder?”

“We’re getting there, we’re getting there,” Banks said.

“Aye, and pigs can fly,” Freddie said, passing their drinks. “None of the usual lot been in tonight?”

“Nope. It’s been as quiet as this since opening time,” Freddie answered miserably and loped off to serve a youth in hiking boots.

“You know,” Banks said, “I’ve been thinking about what to do next, and there’s someone else we might profit from leaning on in this case.”

“Sam Greenock?” Hatchley said.

“Yes. Threaten him with arrest as an accessory, and we might just get him to open up. He’s cocky, but I don’t think he’s as cool as Nicholas. Stephen Collier’s dead now. If we can convince Sam that Nicholas will fall from grace with or without his help, we might be able to strike a bargain. After all, without gentry to suck up to, what’s Sam going to get out of it? Nicholas might well have sawn off the branch he was sitting on by killing Stephen.”

“It’s an idea,” Hatchley said.

“And Greenock’s a bully,” Banks said. “Bullies are the easiest of the lot to lean on, especially men who beat up their wives.”

“I think I might be able to work up a bit of enthusiasm,” Hatchley said, grinning.

“Good. Let’s go.”

“What? Now? But we haven’t finished our drinks.”

“I’ve just got a feeling, that’s all. We can come back to them. Let’s see if Sam’s in.”

They left the White Rose and crossed the bridge. There were no lights on in the front lower or upper rooms of the Greenock Guest House.

“He’s not in,” Hatchley said. “Let’s go back to the pub and call again later.”

“It looks like there’s nobody in at all,” Banks said. “That’s odd.” He couldn’t explain why he felt disturbed by the dark silent house, but he couldn’t ignore the feeling. “No,” he said. “I’m going in.”

Hatchley sighed and followed. “I’ll bet the bloody door’s locked.”

Before they could close the gate behind them, they heard a car coming. It was Sam’s Landrover. He parked near the pub across the narrow Swain, as there was no road on the Greenocks’ side of the river, and came bounding over the bridge.

“Evening, gents,” he called out. “And what can I do . . . Oh, it’s you.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Banks said. “We might be able to do something for you.”

“Oh?” Sam’s boyish face looked puzzled. He patted his curly hair. “All right. Never turn down a favour from a copper, that’s me.”

“Can we go in?”

“Of course. I’ll get the missis to brew a pot of tea.” He dug in his pocket for his keys, finally found the right one and stuck it in the lock, where he poked and twisted it for a while, then turned to Banks and frowned. “That’s odd. It was already open. Katie usually locks up at ten sharp and the guests let themselves in with their own keys. And it’s not usually as dark as this. She puts the hall light on for the guests. They’re probably still in the pub, but I can’t imagine where she is.”

Banks and Hatchley followed him through the front door into the dark hall. Sam turned the light on. The guest book lay open on its varnished table by a stack of tourist guides, maps and brochures advertising local businesses and leisure pursuits. Automatically, Sam looked at himself in the mirror over the phone and patted his curly hair again.

“Katie!” Sam called.

No answer.

He went into the dining-room and flicked the light switch on. “Bloody hell!”

Banks followed him inside. “What is it?” All he could see was the room where he and Hatchley had eaten breakfast. The varnished tables gleamed darkly in the shaded light.

“She’s not set the tables for the morning. She’s not even put the bloody cloths on,” Sam said. He sounded more angry than worried about why or where Katie might have gone.

They paused at the foot of the stairs, where Sam called again and got no answer. “It doesn’t look like she’s home,” he said, puzzled. “I can’t imagine where she’d be at this time.”

“Maybe she’s left you,” Banks suggested.

“Don’t be daft. Where would she go? Why would she do a thing like that anyway?”

They carried on to the door that separated the Greenocks’ living-quarters from the rest of the house.

“Katie!” Sam called once more, hand on the knob.

Still no reply. The absolute silence in the house made Banks’s hackles rise.

Sam opened the door and walked along the short, narrow corridor that linked the two parts of the house. Banks and Hatchley
followed close behind. Coats on hooks on either side brushed against them as they walked in single file behind Sam. The only faint illumination was at the end of the passage.

“At least she’s left this light on,” Sam said.

The light came from the pane of frosted glass on the door that led into the Greenocks’ living-room. Sam called his wife’s name again but got no answer. He walked into the room and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, then stumbled backwards into Banks and started to slide slowly down the wall, hands over his eyes.

Banks regained his balance, pushed past Sam and went in, Hatchley close behind. They stopped in the doorway, awed and horrified by the scene before them. Banks heard Hatchley mutter a prayer or a curse.

There was blood all over the room: on the carpet, the sofa, the hearth, and even splashed like obscene hieroglyphs over the wall above the mantelpiece. Nothing moved. Nicholas Collier lay awkwardly, half on the sofa and half on the carpet, his head bashed in, his face a bloody pulp. He wouldn’t even have been recognizable if it hadn’t been for the prominent, yellowish teeth splintered and bared in agony and shock.

Katie sat on the arm of the settee still holding the heavy wooden cross of her granny’s that had stood on the mantelpiece. Her beautiful brown eyes were looking at things nobody else could see. The front of her dress was ripped open at one side and a few drops of blood glistened against the pale skin of her blue-veined breast.

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Wednesday’s Child

Peter Robinson

A seven-year-old girl is kidnapped, and there is a dreadful possibility of ritual satanic abuse. A corpse is found at an abandoned mine. When the two cases converge, Inspector Banks confronts one of the most terrifying villains he will ever meet.

“His best work yet.”

The Globe and Mail

“A dark, unsettling story. Robinson has done his usual impressive job.”

The New York Times

Find out more about Peter Robinson mysteries at www.penguin.ca/mystery